The Case of the Vanishing Beauty (15 page)

But when it is all over, when you've got time to think, that's when you get sick remembering vivid little details you hardly noticed at the time. The way a body jerked when a bullet ripped through fine skin and flesh and muscle and bone, or the way it jerked just before it stopped being a man and became what they call down at the morgue a "dead body" or the "deceased." Maybe you even wonder what kind of man he was, what he liked for breakfast, where he was born, stupid things like that—and wonder what made him get a gun in his hand and like the feel of it. Maybe you even wonder what it is that goes out of a man when 158 grains of lead drive into his brain or his heart. Maybe you get sick and your stomach turns upside down and then it's all over and you forget about it. Almost.

So the hell with it.

I pulled into the parking lot at the side of El Cuchillo, switched off the car engine, doused the lights, and left the door swinging when I got out. I walked over to the back of the club, beyond the door leading inside, and waited.

There was a light on inside the club, creeping under the door. Somebody was in there, but right now they didn't count. I took the little automatic out of my pocket and held it in my right hand down at my side. I heard a car door click shut out in front. He was coming back.

My stomach was balled up in a knot and I discovered I was breathing with my mouth wide open as if I couldn't get enough air any other way. Sure, I was scared, plenty scared; I'm human.

I gripped the barrel of the .32 in the fingers of my left hand while I wiped my moist right palm against my trousers. I grabbed the small, checked butt of the automatic again and pressed it hard against the corded muscles of my thigh. I could hear him now, his feet crunching softly on the ground as he walked along the side of the building.

Think of El Cuchillo as a square box set on the ground. Out front, the street; on the right, in the direction I was facing, the parking lot; no light behind me, but a little escaping under the back door of El Cuchillo; and the guy creeping down the right side of the box, the night club.

He knew I was back here, maybe guessed I was waiting for him. He'd seen me drive in. But I don't think he gave a damn. He wasn't a cool, methodical killer anymore; he was raw nerves and emotions and hate.

I saw him when he came around the corner, just a dark blob that separated itself from the building and stood still a moment. I could imagine him standing there tense, nostrils distended as if he were trying to smell me out like an animal, another little automatic gripped in his left hand.

"Seipel!" I said. "Hold it. Don't come any closer."

It didn't mean a thing to him. Right now he had a one-track mind, one big idea like a fire in his skull. He had it all figured out.

He started moving again toward me no hurry, all the time in the world.

"Seipel. Don't come any closer. Damn it! Hear me? I'll kill you, Seipel!
"

He kept on coming. He was fifteen feet away when the blast cracked from his gun and flame squirted from his hand. The bullet whistled by me, at least a foot away. He was gone, real gone.

I leveled my gun and pumped two shots, evenly spaced, just to the left of the flame, into the dark blob he made. I was shaking a little.

I felt as if I were dreaming. The long dark blot sagged and melted to the ground. Another ribbon of fire angled from the ground upward, pointing almost over the roof of the building. The automatic made its little crack and a bullet smashed into the wood of the building's wall.

I walked over and knelt down by him on the ground. The automatic was still in his left hand, but he couldn't lift it. There was a little noise in his throat, and then nothing at all. Two twins dead. It was funny; I'd killed Peter with his own automatic.

Another notch in my gun. Boy, was I proud.

I picked up his gun with my left hand and dropped it into my pocket. I left him there, his face in the dirt, and went back to the door into El Cuchillo.

It was unlocked, so I opened it and stepped inside into a lighted kitchen that smelled like peppers and spices. A big range was against the wall in the corner and cans of sprees and chilis and purées lined the far wall. Red and green peppers hung against the right wall in little bunches. Nobody was in the room. Across the kitchen, on the left, an open door led off into the interior of the club.

I started to take a step toward it, the gun loose in my right hand, when I remembered I'd just used the last two rounds in the clip. I stuck my left hand in my coat pocket for the other automatic just as Miguel Mercado stepped through the open door and faced me.

In his left hand, down at his side, he held—point forward, thumb along the blade—one of those long, sharp-pointed knives he played with at showtime. It looked wicked and menacing as hell, but it wasn't that knife that worried me. The one that bothered me was deep in his right fist, point against palm. His right arm was cocked behind his head.

All things considered, I was in one lousy position.

I said, "Easy, boy."

He didn't say anything for a minute. He looked at me out of wide, staring eyes that held the warmth and friendliness of a sentence to Siberia. The pupils were contracted almost to pin points, and he was breathing slowly.

He stopped just inside the door, left hand holding the thin-handled knife at his side, right hand holding the other one still cocked over his head, and said slowly, with exaggerated emphasis, "Hello, Mac. Hello, Mac, old Mac. You son-of-a-bitch."

Miguel was higher than a trial rocket and dangerous as a startled rattlesnake. I'd rather have been someplace else.

I swallowed nothing and said, not moving a finger, "Hello. How are you, Miguel? How is it?"

He giggled a little, as if he thought that was funny. Maybe it was. He said, "What you want, Mac?"

"Want to see Maggie."

"Maggie's gone. What for?"

"Nothing. Just talk."

"Oh, no, Mac. You lying son-of-a-bitch."

As I said before, knives give me nine kinds of creeps. They're not like guns; they're cold and vicious and ugly. They scare me. But I can only stand around so long and let a crumb like Miguel call me a son-of-a-bitch.

I snapped, "Stow the language, you hophead. I don't like it. What're you doing here, anyway? Maggie know what you're up to?"

His lips had been slightly lifted in a sneer. He pulled them down at the corners and his right arm uncoiled from behind his head and snapped out at me. No warning, no words, no nothing. Just the flick of an arm and he hurled the knife straight at my chest.

I stuck my right hand up in front of me in an instinctive gesture of defense, the empty automatic flipping out of my grip and clattering to the floor. I didn't have time for more than that. The knife smacked into my spread palm, and the thin steel blade sliced through the flesh, between the small bones, and thrust three inches of pointed steel out through the back of my hand.

Miguel came at me on the run, his left elbow cocked, ready to drive the other knife into my belly. I jumped to my left, arcing my body, as he lunged and ripped the knife up in a half-circle. My left hand was out of my pocket and clutching for the blade, his wrist, his arm, anything I could get my fingers on. The knife curved and flashed up, a glitter of light driving for my middle. I felt the point flick against the palm of my left hand, then the blade slid past my fingers and my hand jarred against his wrist. I clutched his wrist with all my strength, twisted it, and pulled him up close to me. I couldn't do a damn thing with that knife sticking through my right hand. I couldn't let go of his wrist or he'd shove a hole in me.

Miguel opened his mouth and stuck his head forward on his thin neck as if he wanted to get at me with his teeth. I brought up my left knee hard, and slammed him between the legs.

That was it. That was all of it. Miguel didn't have any fight left in him. He bent over, gagging; the knife dropped from his hand, and he fell. He was bent over so far that his head hit the floor before any of the rest of him; then he flopped all the way down and lay on the floor squirming and moaning.

Sure. It was a foul, a dirty blow. I hit below the belt. O.K., friend. Give Miguel the decision.

I picked the knife up off the floor where he'd dropped it. I should have stuck the damn thing in him, but I just looked at it. It was a long, thin blade with practically no width of handle, and the edges were dull. Only the point was sharp. It was a good thing. I stuck the knife in my belt and looked at my left hand. There was a little rip where the point had gouged it, but where the blade had sliced across the skin there was only a fading crease. A sharp edge would have laid my hand open to the bone.

I lifted the automatic out of my left coat pocket and went through the rest of the club. I left Miguel where he was. I figured he'd be there when I got back.

The other rooms were empty. Apparently my pal had been here alone. So I didn't find anything of interest except that Miguel must have had a couple of cast-iron constitutions. Because when I got back to the kitchen, I found I was all alone in El Cuchillo. Somehow the hopped-up Mr. Mercado had scrambled out of danger. Just as I got to the kitchen I heard the roar of a car motor, then taxes screaming, burning rubber into the street. Period. Another lovely thought struck me where my brains were supposed to be. I checked the kitchen floor and, you guessed it, the little empty automatic was gone with Miguel.

Ah, you're great, Scott. Real sharp. I took a check in back to make sure Peter Seipel hadn't got up and walked off. He hadn't.

I hunted up a phone and called Homicide. Samson answered.

"Sam, I said. "Shell. You still there?"

"Where the hell you think I am? Home in bed?"

"Knock it off, Sam. Send somebody out here, will you?"

"You don't sound so hot, Shell. What's the matter?"

"Some trouble. I found Seipel. I mean he found me. He needs a basket. I'm at El Cuchillo, out on Bernard Street. That knife-thrower Mercado jumped me. He was hopped up to the ears and I had to give him a knee. I thought he was planted for a while, but the hop must have made him tougher than I figured. He took a walk while I was wandering around out here. And I've got a knife through my hand. Send a doc out. I'll let him pull the thing out and fix the hand up for me."

Sam didn't say anything for a couple of seconds; I could almost see him mangling the end of his cigar. When he spoke, all he said was "Sure, Shell. Right away. We'll put a call out on Mercado."

"Thanks, Sam. See you tomorrow." I hung up…

I'd answered all the questions. The doc had taken the knife out of my hand and bandaged the gash, and put a little gauze and tape on the left one. Seipel had been hauled away, and the gun I'd taken from him was down at the police lab. And I was ready for bed.

I opened the door of the apartment, turned on the lights, and went inside. I was mixing a drink in the kitchenette when Lina came in. She looked at me, at my bandaged hands, and said, "Someday you will get yourself killed, Shell. You will not come home. What has happened this time?"

"I had an argument with a guy, Lina. Also I saw Miguel. He ought to be in worse shape than I am."

She didn't press me for any more details. "Come," she said. "Bring your drink and sit with me on the couch. You are tired."

We sat on the couch and Lina spoke to me softly in Spanish, long, liquid, flowing phrases. I didn't know what she was saying, but it didn't make any difference. It was the way she said it.

She pulled my head around to her, slipped her arms around my neck, and kissed me. I put my arms around her and held her close.

My hands hurt, my side ached where Seipel had kicked me, and when I kissed Lina, my jaw hurt like hell.

Ahhh, but it hurt good.

Chapter Thirteen

THE BIG GUY WAS thirty feet tall and he had one hand wrapped around my ankles and the other hand around my neck and he was slowly bending me back the wrong way. Just a couple more inches and there'd be a pop and I'd bust in two like a dry cracker. The hand around my neck was cutting off my wind and I couldn't even tell this character he had the wrong guy. I struggled and twisted and pulled and I got my head craned around a little and blew in his big left eye and he disappeared. Whoosh, like that.
 

I peeled open my eyes and felt my lips relax from their whooshing position, and I looked up from under white eyebrows at two ghastly, naked feet sticking up from under a blanket. They were disgusting. I wanted no part of the things. The back of my head was crammed up against the end of the front-room divan, and my neck felt as if it was shaped like a pretzel. Well, well. Good morning, Scott.

Noises. Noises came out of the kitchen. Revolting odors came out of the kitchen. Lina came out of the kitchen.

"Breakfast," she said brightly.

"'Way."

"What?"

"Go 'way."

"Come. Breakfast. Eggs I have fixed."

Oh, no. Not that. Eggs. Please, not that. Eggs. Ugly, slimy, smelly, nauseating eggs.

I wrapped the blanket around me, got up and tottered into the kitchenette, and peeked through slit eyelids down at the top of the little gas range, into the frying pan, the greasy, smoking frying pan.